Air Conditioning
by darcyfarrow
Summary: The hotter it gets, the hotter he gets as his maidenly maid alters her wardrobe to beat the heat.


Upon reflection, perhaps he should have bargained for the beefy buffoon instead. It would have been quite entertaining, watching the boldest warrior in Avonlea scrub the stone floors on his knightly knees, though, Rumplestiltskin is certain, Sir Goofston wouldn't have lasted but a week of this hard (and, for a nobleman, humiliating) labor before he'd attempted an escape (and impaled himself upon the castle's wards) or, foolish as he was, would have challenged the Dark One to a duel. How fun that would've been! And how short-lived.

The lady is made of sturdier stuff than the knight. Had her betrothed recognized that? Had he acknowledged her for it? Likely not. But here she is, tender hands and tender years deterring her not from her appointed chores. She blackens his stoves, she scrapes mud from his boots, she wipes blood from his crocodile coat, she pricks her fingers on needles as she struggles to mend his shirts. And now she's in the washroom, up to her dimples in soap suds, scrubbing his trousers (before he surrendered them to her wash basket, he subtly cast a wee spell to take the waistband in an inch or four. No need letting her get an inflated ego over the pounds he's added since she started cooking for him.)

It's the first day of summer, already quite warm, and her long, thick hair is up in a tight bun so as not to fall in her face as she scrubs. Yes. When she fixed her hair this morning, he's quite sure she gave no thought to how much of her virgin neck she would be exposing to the monster. . . to the male monster with whom she resides.

The parts of her that are properly exposed–face, hands–are sunburnt already and slightly roughened from manual labor. But that neck is innocently white.

When he's tucked into bed late at night, up in his tower, so safely far away from her chambers on the second floor, he thinks about sweeping away the loose tendrils that fall into her face when she bends and that stick damply to her forehead (also innocently white). He thinks about pressing his lips to the nape of that innocent neck.

He should have bargained for Goofston.

In the second week of summer, the sun burns brightly and sweat trickles down her collar as she tends his garden. Down her collar, down the newly exposed thin skin of her collarbone, for she's wearing dresses with deeper necklines now, due to the heat. Deeper, but maidenly. Still, when he's tucked into bed at night, up in his tower, so far away, he thinks about nuzzling that vulnerable little u-shaped dip at the juncture of her neck and her collarbone. Just to see her reaction. Would she cower, monster that he is? Would she push him away, maiden that she is? Or would she sink her roughened hands into his hair and draw him closer? (He could give her a lotion for those chapped hands, if only she'd ask. If she weren't too proud to ask a favor of her master.)

He should have made a scullery maid of that Goofston, instead of subjecting Milady to this rough work. She was meant for finer things, like ball gowns and pearl earbobs. (If she was his lady, he'd never send her out in less than gold-thread gowns and jewels from faraway lands). She was made for diamond necklaces draped around her well-kissed neck.

In the third week of summer, there is no breeze. Not even the hope of a breeze. He could do something about that; he's an Elemental master (he's a master of almost every kind of magic). He could summon clouds to cover the sun as Belle plucks apples from his orchard so she can bake him a pie (poor little maid, laboring over a hot oven just to satisfy his sweet tooth). Or he could raise the wind, make it sing in the trees, sing a lullaby just for her as she tosses in her damp sheets at night. But he doesn't, not because of magic's price–he's already paying it, with sleepless nights full of thoughts of her now-stockingless legs, which he catches glimpses of as she climbs his apple trees. He doesn't use his magic to give her clouds or breezes because–well, he may be a monster but he's still a man.

Where's Goofston when he's needed? Oh, yeah: in a vase on the dining table.

In the fourth week of summer, the air is so dry it crackles. As she hangs his laundry out for the sun to suck it dry, her feet are bare. Her tender little feet, exposed, because her shoes weigh them down. She flexes her ankles and curls her toes in the grass, which he makes plush, just for her to walk on, just so he can listen to her contented sighs as the soft blades caress her pretty little feet. And at night in his sweat-soaked bed in his too-distant tower, he imagines those bare legs stretched out across his lap so that he can massage those pretty little feet, just to listen to her sigh.

Goofston, you useless table ornament.

In the fifth week of summer, the grass has turned brown and she retreats to the cool stones of the dark castle. She still walks around barelegged, barefooted, in her low-cut collars and her now high-hemmed skirts. Practically knee-length, they are. Well, not really: she's still a modest maiden and her skirts reach to mid-calf when she walks, but oh, when she bends to slide a pie into the oven, her skirts ride up and with no petticoats to shield the view, the dimpled backs of her knees show. And at night from the stone floor where he now lies flat on his back, in his damned tower a mile away from her, he imagines sliding his hands up those short skirts and licking her innocent neck and making her moan before, at last, he makes her sigh.

He can't take much more of this.

With a growl he flicks his wrist and sends Goofston off in a bouquet to Duke Maurice's lowest-ranking scullery maid, then he summons the barefooted duchess in her petticoatless, hemmed skirts and before that bead of sweat on her collarbone can tease him beyond endurance, he snaps his fingers and suddenly, a cool breeze wafts through the Dark Castle.

He's just invented air conditioning.

And she lays her head back, eyes closed in bliss, exposing her virgin neck, and her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and her bare toes curl as she surrenders herself to the breeze. And, oh, how she sighs.

In agony, he snaps his fingers again and hies off to his tower, which isn't far away enough to escape the memory of that sigh.

Perhaps in the morning he'll suggest they spend the rest of the summer at the North Pole.


End file.
